We bear our shades about us: self-depriv'd Of other screen, the thin umbrella spread, And range an Indian waste without a tree. Thanks to Benevolus*-he spares me yet These chestnuts rang'd in corresponding lines; And, though himself so polish'd, still reprieves The obsolete prolixity of shade.
Descending now (but cautious, lest too fast) A sudden steep upon a rustic bridge, We pass a gulf, in which the willows dip Their pendent boughs, stooping as if to drink. Hence, ancle-deep in moss and flow'ry thyme, We mount again, and feel at ev'ry step
Our foot half-sunk in hillocks green and soft, Rais'd by the mole, the miner of the soil. He, not unlike the great ones of mankind, Disfigures Earth; and, plotting in the dark, Toils much to earn a monumental pile, That may record the mischiefs he has done.
The summit gain'd, behold the proud alcove That crowns it! yet not all its pride secures The grand retreat from injuries impress'd By rural carvers, who with knives deface The panels, leaving an obscure, rude name, In characters uncouth, and spelt amiss. So strong the zeal t' immortalize himself Beats in the breast of man, that ev'n a few, Few transient years, won from th' abyss abhorr'd Of blank oblivion, seem a glorious prize, And even to a clown. Now roves the eye; And, posted on his speculative height, Exults in its command. The sheep-fold here Pours out its fleecy tenants o'er the glebe. At first progressive as a stream, they seek The middle field; but, scatter'd by degrees, Each to his choice, soon whiten all the land. There from the sun-burnt hay-field homeward creeps The loaded wain; while, lighten'd of its charge, The wain that meets it passes swiftly by; The boorish driver leaning o'er his team Vocif'rous, and impatient of delay. Nor less attractive is the woodland scene, Diversified with trees of ev'ry growth, Alike, yet various. Here the grey smooth trunks Of ash, or lime, or beech, distinctly shine, Within the twilight of their distant shades; There, lost behind a rising ground, the wood Seems sunk, and shorten'd to its topmost boughs. No tree in all the grove but has its charms, Though each its hue peculiar; paler some, And of a wannish gray; the willow such, And poplar, that with silver lines his leaf, And ash, far-stretching his umbrageous arm; Of deeper green the elm; and deeper still, Lord of the woods, the long-surviving oak. Some glossy-leav'd, and shining in the sun, The maple, and the beach of oily nuts Prolific, and the lime at dewy eve Diffusing odors: nor unnoted pass The sycamore, capricious in attire,
Now green, now tawny, and, ere Autumn yet Have chang'd the woods, in scarlet honors bright. O'er these, but far beyond (a spacious map Of hill and valley interpos'd between,) The Ouse, dividing the well-water'd land, Now glitters in the sun, and now retires, As bashful, yet impatient to be seen.
* John Courtney Throckmorton, Esq. of Weston Underwood.
Hence the declivity is sharp and short, And such the re-ascent; between them weeps A little naiad her impov'rish'd un All summer long, which winter fills again. The folded gates would bar my progress now, But that the lordt of this incloe'd demesne, Communicative of the good he owns, Admits me to a share; the guiltless eye Commits no wrong, nor wastes what it enjoys Refreshing change! where now the blazing Sun! By short transition we have lost his glare, And stepp'd at once into a cooler clime. Ye fallen avenues! once more I mourn Your fate unmerited, once more rejoice That yet a remnant of your race survives. How airy and how light the graceful arch, Yet awful as the consecrated roof Re-echoing pious anthems! while beneath The chequer'd earth seems restless as a flood Brush'd by the wind. So sportive is the Light Shot through the boughs, it dances as they dant Shadow and sun-shine intermingling quick, And dark'ning and enlight'ning, as the leaves Play wanton, ev'ry moment, ev'ry spot.
And now, with nerves new-brac'd and sıra We tread the wilderness, whose well-roll'd mis With curvature of slow and easy sweepDeception innocent-give ample space To narrow bounds. The grove receives us ner; Between the upright shafts of whose tall eit We may discern the thresher at his task. Thump after thump resounds the constant fail That seems to swing uncertain, and yet fails Full on the destin'd ear. Wide flies the chaff, The rustling straw sends up a frequent mist Of atoms, sparkling in the noon-day beam. Come hither, ye that press your beds of down And sleep not; see him sweating o'er his bread Before he eats it.-"Tis the primal curse, But soften'd into mercy; made the pledge Of cheerful days, and nights without a groan By ceaseless action, all that is subsists. Constant rotation of th' unwearied wheel. That Nature rides upon, maintains her health, Her beauty, her fertility. She dreads An instant's pause, and lives but while she moves Its own revolvency upholds the World. Winds from all quarters agitate the air, And fit the limpid element for use, Else noxious; oceans, rivers, lakes, and streams All feel the fresh'ning impulse, and are cleats'd By restless undulation: ev'n the osk Thrives by the rude concussion of the storm: He seems indeed indignant, and to feel Th' impression of the blast with proud disdain. Frowning, as if in his unconscious arm He held the thunder: but the monarch owes His firm stability to what he scorns, More fix'd below, the more disturb'd above. The law, by which all creatures else are bound, Binds man, the lord of all. Himself derives No mean advantage from a kindred cause, From strenuous toil his hours of sweetest esse The sedentary stretch their lazy length When Custom bids, but no refreshment find. For none they need: the languid eye, the cheek Deserted of its bloom, the flaccid, shrunk, And wither'd muscle, and the vapid soul,
† See the foregoing note.
Reproach their owner with that love of rest, To which he forfeits ev'n the rest he loves. Not such the alert and active. Measure life By its true worth, the comforts it affords, And theirs alone seems worthy of the name. Good health, and, its associate in the most, Good temper; spirits prompt to undertake, And not soon spent, though in an arduous task; The pow'rs of fancy and strong thought are theirs; Ev'n age itself seems privileg'd in them With clear exemption from its own defects. A sparkling eye beneath a wrinkled front The vet'ran shows, and, gracing a grey beard With youthful smiles, descends toward the grave Sprightly, and old almost without decay.
Like a coy maiden, Ease, when courted most, Farthest retires-an idol, at whose shrine Who oft'nest sacrifice are favor'd least. The love of Nature, and the scenes she draws, Is Nature's dictate. Strange! there should be found, Who, self-imprison'd in their proud saloons, Renounce the odors of the open field For the unscented fictions of the loom; Who, satisfied with only pencil'd scenes, Prefer to the performance of a God Th' inferior wonders of an artist's hand! Lovely indeed the mimic works of Art; But Nature's works far lovelier. I admire, None more admires, the painter's magic skill, Who shows me that which I shall never see, Conveys a distant country into mine, And throws Italian light on English walls: But imitative strokes can do no more
Than please the eye-sweet Nature's, ev'ry sense. The air salubrious of her lofty hills, The cheering fragrance of her dewy vales, And music of her woods-no works of man May rival these; these all bespeak a pow'r Peculiar, and exclusively her own. Beneath the open sky she spreads the feast; "Tis free to all-'tis ev'ry day renew'd; Who scorns it starves deservedly at home. He does not scorn it, who, imprison'd long In some unwholesome dungeon, and a prey To sallow sickness, which the vapors, dank And clammy, of his dark abode have bred, Escapes at last to liberty and light:
His cheek recovers soon its healthful hue; #His eye relumines its extinguish'd fires;
He walks, he leaps, he runs-is wing'd with joy, And riots in the sweets of ev'ry breeze. He does not scorn it, who has long endur'd A fever's agonies, and fed on drugs. Nor yet the mariner, his blood inflam'd With acrid salts; his very heart athirst, To gaze at Nature in her green array, Upon the ship's tall side he stands, possess'd With visions prompted by intense desire : Fair fields appear below, such as he left Far distant, such as he would die to find- He seeks them headlong, and is seen no more. The spleen is seldom felt where Flora reigns; The low'ring eye, the petulance, the frown, And sullen sadness, that o'ershade, distort, And mar, the face of Beauty, when no cause For such immeasurable woe appears, These Flora banishes, and gives the fair
That palls and satiates, and makes languid life, A pedlar's pack, that bows the bearer down. Health suffers, and the spirits ebb, the heart Recoils from its own choice-at the full feast Is famish'd-finds no music in the song, No smartness in the jest; and wonders why. Yet thousands still desire to journey on, Though halt, and weary of the path they tread The paralytic, who can hold her cards, But cannot play them, borrows a friend's hand, To deal and shuffle, to divide and sort Her mingled suits and sequences; and sits, Spectatress both and spectacle, a sad And silent cipher, while her proxy plays. Others are dragg'd into the crowded room Between supporters; and, once seated, sit, Through downright inability to rise, Till the stout bearers lift the corpse again. These speak a loud memento. Yet ev'n these Themselves love life, and cling to it, as he, That overhangs a torrent, to a twig.
They love it, and yet lothe it; fear to die, Yet scorn the purposes for which they live. Then wherefore not renounce them? No-the dread The slavish dread of solitude, that breeds Reflection and remorse, the fear of shame, And their invet'rate habits, all forbid.
Whom call we gay? That honor has been long The boast of mere pretenders to the name. The innocent are gay-the lark is gay, That dries his feathers, saturate with dew, Beneath the rosy cloud, while yet the beams Of day-spring over-shoot his humble nest. The peasant too, a witness of his song, Himself a songster, is as gay as he.
But save me from the gaiety of those, Whose head-aches nail them to a noon-day bed; And save me too from theirs, whose haggard eyes Flash desperation, and betray their pangs For property stripp'd off by cruel chance; From gaiety, that fills the bones with pain, The mouth with blasphemy, the heart with woe. The Earth was made so various, that the mind Of desultory man, studious of change, And pleas'd with novelty, might be indulg'd. Prospects, however lovely, may be seen Till half their beauties fade; the weary sight, Too well acquainted with their smile, slides off Fastidious, seeking less familiar scenes. Then snug inclosures in the shelter'd vale, Where frequent hedges intercept the eye, Delight us; happy to renounce awhile,
Not senseless of its charms, what still we love, That such short absence may endear it more. Then forests, or the savage rock may please, That hides the seamew in his hollow clefts Above the reach of man. His hoary head, Conspicuous many a league, the mariner, Bound homeward, and in hope already there, Greets with three cheers exulting. At his waist A girdle of half-wither'd shrubs he shows, And at his feet the baffled billows die. The common, overgrown with fern, and rough With prickly gorse, that, shapeless and deform'd, And dang'rous to the touch, has yet its bloom, And decks itself with ornaments of gold, Yields no unpleasing ramble; there the turf
Sweet smiles, and bloom less transient than her own. Smells fresh, and, rich in odorif'rous herbs
It is the constant revolution, stale
And tasteless, of the same repeated joys,
And fungous fruits of earth, regales the sense With luxury of unexpected sweets.
There often wanders one, whom better days Saw better clad, in cloak of satin trimm'd With lace, and hat with splendid riband bound. A serving-maid was she, and fell in love With one who left her, went to sea, and died. Her fancy follow'd him through foaming waves To distant shores; and she would sit and weep At what a sailor suffers; fancy too, Delusive most where warmest wishes are, Would oft anticipate his glad return, And dream of transports she was not to know. She heard the doleful tidings of his death- And never smil'd again! and now she roams The dreary waste; there spends the livelong day, And there, unless when charity forbids, The livelong night. A tatter'd apron hides, Worn as a cloak, and hardly hides, a gown More tatter'd still; and both but ill conceal A bosom heav'd with never-ceasing sighs. She begs an idle pin of all she meets,
And terrible to sight, as when she springs (If e'er she springs spontaneous) in remote And barb'rous climes, where violence prevails, And strength is lord of all; but, gentle, kind, By culture tam'd, by liberty refresh'd, And all her fruits by radiant truth matur'd. War and the chase engross the savage whole; War follow'd for revenge, or to supplant The envied tenants of some happier spot: The chase for sustenance, precarious trust! His hard condition with severe constraint Binds all his faculties, forbids all growth Of wisdom, proves a school, in which he learns Sly circumvention, unrelenting hate, Mean self-attachment, and scarce aught beside Thus fare the shiv'ring natives of the north, And thus the rangers of the western world, Where it advances far into the deep, Tow'rds the antarctic. Even the favor'd isles So lately found, although the constant Sun Cheer all their scasons with a grateful smile, Can boast but little virtue; and, inert Through plenty, lose in morals what they gain In manners-victims of luxurious ease. These therefore I can pity, plac'd remote From all that science traces, art invents, Or inspiration teaches; and inclos'd In boundless oceans never to be pass'd By navigators uninform'd as they, Or plow'd perhaps by British bark again: But far beyond the rest, and with most cause, Thee, gentle savage!* whom no love of thee Or thine, but curiosity perhaps, un-Or else vain-glory, prompted us to draw Forth from thy native bow'rs, to show thee here With what superior skill we can abuse The gifts of Providence, and squander life. The dream is past; and thou hast found again Thy cocoas and bananas, palms and yams, And homestall thatch'd with leaves. But hast the found
And hoards them in her sleeve; but needful food, Though press'd with hunger oft, or comelier clothes, Though pinch'd with cold, asks never-Kate is craz'd.
I see a column of slow-rising smoke O'ertop the lofty wood, that skirts the wild. A vagabond and useless tribe there eat Their miserable meal. A kettle, slung Between two poles upon a stick transverse, Receives the morsel-flesh obscene of dog, Or vermin, or at best of cock purloin'd From his accustom'd perch. Hard-faring race! They pick their fuel out of ev'ry hedge, Which, kindled with dry leaves, just saves quench'd
The spark of life. The sportive wind blows wide Their flutt'ring rags, and shows a tawny skin, The vellum of the pedigree they claim. Great skill have they in palmistry, and more To conjure clean away the gold they touch, Conveying worthless dross into its place; Loud when they beg, dumb only when they steal. Strange! that a creature rational, and cast In human mould, should brutalize by choice His nature; and, though capable of arts, By which the world might profit, and himself, Self-banish'd from society, prefer Such squalid sloth to honorable toil! Yet even these, though feigning sickness oft They swathe the forehead, drag the limping limb, And vex their flesh with artificial sores, Can change their whine into a mirthful note, When safe occasion offers; and with dance, And music of the bladder and the bag, Beguile their woes, and make the woods resound. Such health and gaiety of heart enjoy The houseless rovers of the sylvan world; And, breathing wholesome air, and wand'ring much, Need other physic none to heal th' effects Of lothesome diet, penury, and cold.
Blest he, though undistinguish'd from the crowd By wealth or dignity, who dwells secure, Where man, by nature fierce, has laid aside His fierceness, having learnt, though slow to learn, The manners and the arts of civil life. His wants indeed are many; but supply Is obvious, plac'd within the easy reach Of temp'rate wishes and industrious hands. Here virtue thrives as in her proper soil; Not rude and surly, and beset with thorns,
Their former charms? And, having seen our stat Our palaces, our ladies, and our pomp Of equipage, our gardens, and our sports. And heard our music; are thy simple friends, Thy simple fare, and all thy plain delights, As dear to thee as once? And have thy joys Lost nothing by comparison with ours? Rude as thou art, (for we return'd thee rude And ignorant, except of outward show,) I cannot think thee yet so dull of heart And spiritless, as never to regret Sweets tasted here, and left as soon as known Methinks I see thee straying on the beach, And asking of the surge, that bathes thy foot. If ever it has wash'd our distant shore. I see thee weep, and thine are honest tears, A patriot's for his country: thou art sad At thought of her forlorn and abject state, From which no pow'r of thine can raise her up Thus Fancy paints thee, and, though apt to ent Perhaps errs little, when she paints thee thos She tells me too, that duly ev'ry morn Thou climb'st the mountain-top, with eager eye Exploring far and wide the wat'ry waste For sight of ship from England. Ev'ry speck Seen in the dim horizon turns thee pale With conflict of contending hopes and fears.
But comes at last the dull and dusky eve, And sends thee to thy cabin, well-prepar'd To dream all night of what the day denied. Alas! expect it not. We found no bait To tempt us in thy country. Doing good, Disinterested good, is not our trade.
We travel far, 'tis true, but not for nought; And must be brib'd to compass Earth again By other hopes and richer fruits than yours.
But though true worth and virtue in the mild And genial soil of cultivated life
Thrive most, and may perhaps thrive only there, Yet not in cities oft; in proud, and gay, And gain-devoted cities. Thither flow,
As to a common and most noisome sewer, The dregs and feculence of ev'ry land. In cities foul example on most minds Begets its likeness. Rank abundance breeds, In gross and pamper'd cities, sloth, and lust, And wantonness, and gluttonous excess.
1 In cities, vice is hidden with most ease,
Or seen with least reproach; and virtue, taught By frequent lapse, can hope no triumph there Beyond th' achievement of successful flight. I do confess them nurs'ries of the arts,
In which they flourish most; where, in the beams Of warm encouragement, and in the eye Of public note, they reach their perfect size. Such London is, by taste and wealth proclaim'd The fairest capital of all the world, By riot and incontinence the worst.
Nor is it well, nor can it come to good, That, through profane and infidel contempt Of Holy Writ, she has presum'd t'annul And abrogate, as roundly as she may, The total ordinance and will of God; Advancing Fashion to the post of Truth, And cent'ring all authority in modes And customs of her own, till sabbath-rites Have dwindled into unrespected forms, And knees and hassocks are well-nigh divorc'd.
God made the country, and man made the town. What wonder then that health and virtue, gifts That can alone make sweet the bitter draught That life holds out to all, should most abound And least be threaten'd in the fields and groves? Possess ye therefore, ye who, borne about In chariots and sedans, know no fatigue But that of idleness, and taste no scenes But such as art contrives, possess ye still Your element; there only can ye shine; There only minds like yours can do no harm. Our groves were planted to console at noon The pensive wand'rer in their shades. At eve, The moonbeam, sliding softly in between The sleeping leaves, is all the light they wish, Birds warbling all the music. We can spare The splendor of your lamps; they but eclipse Our softer satellite. Your songs confound Our more harmonious notes; the thrush departs Scar'd, and th' offended nightingale is mute. There is a public mischief in your mirth;
There, touch'd by Reynolds, a dull blank becomes It plagues your country. Folly such as yours,
A lucid mirror, in which Nature sees
All her reflected features. Bacon there
Gives more than female beauty to a stone, And Chatham's eloquence to marble lips.
Nor does the chisel occupy alone
The pow'rs of sculpture, but the style as much; Each province of her art her equal care. With nice incision of her guided steel She plows a brazen field, and clothes a soil So sterile with what charms soe'er she will, The richest scen'ry and the loveliest forms. Where finds Philosophy her eagle eye, With which she gazes at yon burning disk Undazzled, and detects and counts his spots ? In London. Where her implements exact, With which she calculates, computes, and scans, All distance, motion, magnitude, and now Measures an atom, and now girds a world? In London. Where has commerce such a mart, So rich, so throng'd, so drain'd, and so supplied, As London-opulent, enlarg'd, and still Increasing, London? Babylon of old Not more the glory of the Earth than she, A more accomplish'd world's chief glory now. She has her praise. Now mark a spot or two, That so much beauty would do well to purge; And show this queen of cities, that so fair May yet be foul; so witty, yet not wise. It is not seemly, nor of good report, That she is slack in discipline; more prompt Tavenge than to prevent the breach of law; That she is rigid in denouncing death On petty robbers, and indulges life
And liberty, and oft-times honor too,
To peculators of the public gold;
Grac'd with a sword, and worthier of a fan, Has made what enemies could ne'er have done, Our arch of empire, stedfast but for you,
A mutilated structure, soon to fall.
Reflections suggested by the conclusion of the for. mer book. Peace among the nations recommended on the ground of their common fellowship in sorrow. Prodigies enumerated. Sicilian earthquakes. Man rendered obnoxious to these calamities by sin. God the agent in them. The philosophy that stops at secondary causes reproved. Our own late miscarriages accounted for. Satirical notice taken of our trips to Fontaine-Bleau. But the pulpit, not satire, the proper engine of reformation. The reverend advertiser of engraved sermons. Petit-maître parson. The good preacher. Picture of a theatrical clerical coxcomb. Storytellers and jesters in the pulpit reproved. Apostrophe to popular applause. Retailers of ancient philosophy expostulated with. Sum of the whole
That thieves at home must hang; but he, that puts O FOR a lodge in some vast wilderness,
Into his over-gorg'd and bloated purse
The wealth of Indian provinces, escapes.
Some boundless contiguity of shade, Where rumor of oppression and deceit,
Of unsuccessful or successful war, Might never reach me more. My ear is pain'd, My soul is sick, with ev'ry day's report
Of wrong and outrage, with which Earth is fill'd. There is no flesh in man's obdurate heart; It does not feel for man; the nat'ral bond Of brotherhood is sever'd, as the flax That falls asunder at the touch of fire. He finds his fellow guilty of a skin Not color'd like his own; and, having pow'r T'enforce the wrong, for such a worthy cause Dooms and devotes him as his lawful prey. Lands intersected by a narrow frith Abhor each other. Mountains interpos'd Make enemies of nations, who had else Like kindred drops been mingled into one. Thus man devotes his brother, and destroys; And, worse than all, and most to be deplor'd As human nature's broadest, foulest blot, Chains him, and tasks him, and exacts his sweat With stripes, that Mercy with a bleeding heart Weeps, when she sees inflicted on a beast. Then what is man? And what man, seeing this, And having human feelings, does not blush, And hang his head, to think himself a man? I would not have a slave to till my ground, To carry me, to fan me while I sleep,
And tremble when I wake, for all the wealth That sinews bought and sold have ever earn'd. No: dear as freedom is, and in my heart's Just estimation priz'd above all price, I had much rather be myself the slave, And wear the bonds, than fasten them on him. We have no slaves at home-Then why abroad? And they themselves, once ferried o'er the wave That parts us, are emancipate and loos'd. Slaves cannot breathe in England; if their lungs Receive our air, that moment they are free; They touch our country, and their shackles fall. That's noble, and bespeaks a nation proud And jealous of the blessing. Spread it then, And let it circulate through ev'ry vein Of all your empire; that, where Britain's pow'r Is felt, mankind may feel her mercy too.
Sure there is need of social intercourse, Benevolence, and peace, and mutual aid, Between the nations, in a world that seems To toll the death-bell of its own decease, And by the voice of all its elements
Still they are frowning signals, and bespeak Displeasure in His breast, who smites the Eart Or heals it, makes it languish or rejoice. And 'tis but seemly, that, where all deserve And stand expos'd by common peccarey To what no few have felt, there should be peace. And brethren in calamity should love.
Alas for Sicily! rude fragments now Lie scatter'd, where the shapely column stood. Her palaces are dust. In all her streets The voice of singing and the sprightly chord Are silent. Revelry, and dance, and show Suffer a syncope and solemn pause; While God performs upon the trembling stage Of his own works his dreadful part alone. How does the Earth receive him?-with what ag Of gratulation and delight her king! Pours she not all her choicest fruits abroad, Her sweetest flowers, her aromatic gums, Disclosing Paradise where'er he treads! She quakes at his approach. Her hollow was Conceiving thunders through a thousand deep And fiery caverns, roars beneath his foot. The hills move lightly, and the mountains smoke For he has touch'd them. From th' extremest p Of elevation down into the abyss, His wrath is busy, and his frown is felt. The rocks fall headlong, and the valleys rise, The rivers die into offensive pools, And, charg'd with putrid verdure, breathe a g And mortal nuisance into all the air. What solid was, by transformation strange, Grows fluid; and the fix'd and rooted earth, Tormented into billows, heaves and swells, Or with vortiginous and hideous whirl Sucks down its prey insatiable. Immense The tumult and the overthrow, the pang And agonies of human and of brute Multitudes, fugitive on ev'ry side, And fugitive in vain. The sylvan scene Migrates uplifted; and with all its soil Alighting in far-distant fields, finds out A new possessor, and survives the change. Ocean has caught the frenzy, and, upwrought To an enormous and o'erbearing height, Not by a mighty wind, but by that voice Which winds and waves obey, invades the shore Resistless. Never such a sudden flood. Upridg'd so high, and sent on such a charge.
To preach the gen'ral doom. When were the winds Possess'd an inland scene. Where now the thre
Let slip with such a warrant to destroy? When did the waves so haughtily o'erleap Their ancient barriers, deluging the dry? Fires from beneath, and meteorst from above, Portentous, unexampled, unexplain'd,
Have kindled beacons in the skies; and th' old And crazy Earth has had her shaking fits More frequent, and foregone her usual rest. Is it a time to wrangle, when the props And pillars of our planet seem to fail, And Nature with a dim and sickly eye To wait the close of all? But grant her end More distant, and that prophecy demands A longer respite, unaccomplish'd yet;
* Alluding to the calamities in Jamaica.
That press'd the beach, and, hasty to depart Look'd to the sea for safety? They are gone, Gone with the refluent wave into the deep, A prince with half his people! Ancient tow's And roofs embattled high, the gloomy scenes, Where beauty oft and letter'd worth consume Life in the unproductive shades of death. Fall prone: the pale inhabitants come forth, And, happy in their unforeseen release From all the rigors of restraint, enjoy The terrors of the day, that sets them free Who then, that has thee, would not hold thee, Freedom! whom they that lose thee so regret, That ev'n a judgment, making way for thee, Seems in their eyes a mercy for thy sake!
Such evil Sin hath wrought; and such a fame Kindled in Heav'n, that it burns down to Earth,
Alluding to the fog, that covered both Europe and And in the furious inquest, that it makes Asia during the whole summer of 1783.
On God's behalf, lays waste his fairest works.
« PreviousContinue » |